


Catharsis

by lowkeytrash



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Betrayal, Drabble, Less than 1K, M/M, Pain, literally no point to this except angsty things, no sexy stuff just violent stuff, really short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowkeytrash/pseuds/lowkeytrash
Summary: Dean beats the shit outta Seth. That's literally all. Pointless drabble.





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> idk i wrote this right after seth tried to get back into dean's good graces and never posted it. here it is in all of its short (just under 1k words) and angsty glory.

The cold steel feels good in Dean's hands. He grips the legs of the chair tightly, watching his knuckles turn white, and the tendons flex beneath his skin. His hair hangs limp and stringy, strands of it sticking to his forehead. He's hot. Sweaty. Angry. _So fucking angry._

 

“Just _do it_ already,” Seth hisses, snapping Dean back to attention.

 

“Shut up,” Dean says. “I'm thinkin', alright?”

 

“You? Thinking?” Seth cackles—that stupid weasel laugh that's oh-so-hateable—and Dean squeezes the chair again. It would be so easy. Now's not the right time, though. There's not enough hurt yet. Seth hasn't even felt the slightest hint of pain or misery.

 

“Rememberin' if you wanna be specific," Dean snaps. Remembering how devastated he was those few years ago. Remembering the feel of the chair against _his_ back. Remembering the knife Seth twisted into him. Fuck Seth Rollins.

 

“You know, that chair's gonna make a lot of--- _FUCK!”_ Seth cries out in pain as the metal comes down across his back.

 

And, yeah, the chair does make a lot of noise, but Dean's voice is louder. Screaming and cursing and breaking as tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “You're a fucking asshole.” He hits Seth with the chair again, harder this time. He smiles wickedly at Seth's cries of pain. Good. It serves him right.

 

“Is that all you've got, Ambrose?” Seth chokes out between labored breaths. Still as cock-sure and snarky as ever. He tugs against the handcuffs around his wrists and they dig into his skin.

 

Dean answers with a laugh that chills Seth to the bone. It's evil. Demented. 

 

“Look, man, I'm sorry.” Seth closes his eyes and braces for another impact. He's done it now.

 

“I'm not.” Dean slams the chair across Seth's shoulders once more, before dropping it to the ground. He fusses with his belt, yanks it off, and holds it tightly. He doesn't give Seth any warning, just snaps the leather across the man's back. A welt forms quickly, and Dean wastes no time before whipping Seth again and again and again. His back is bruising and swelling and bloody in places, but Dean keeps swinging.

 

“Stop, please. _Please,_ Dean. I said I was sorry,” Seth pleads. He doesn't care about being tough anymore or not showing any weakness. He's scared and hurt and needs comfort. 

 

“You're a piece of shit, Seth,” Dean says. He tosses his belt onto the bed. He fishes around in his pocket for a second before pulling out the key to Seth's handcuffs. After a sharp kick to Seth's ribs—and another for good measure—he frees the lock and Seth's hands drop from the bed post.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean stares at Seth's back in all of its grotesque glory and chews at his lip. He's not sure how he feels, quite frankly. There's a little less anger inside of Dean, but the hurt is still there. The mental scars. A few red droplets trail down Seth's skin, tracing along the planes of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, mixing with the sheen of his sweat. Dean moves in hesitantly, then darts his tongue out and runs it along one of the welts. The coppery tang of blood sends some sort of electric jolt through him. Seth shudders beneath him.

 

Dean wants to kiss Seth. Wants to punch his lights out and hold him close and crush his spirit and tend to his wounds and rip his fucking heart out all at once. He’ll settle for a kiss.

 

So he puts a hand firmly under Seth's chin and guides him to his feet before pressing their lips together. It's angry and violent, with teeth clacking and tongues fighting and bloody lips and, somewhere, maybe, a hint of genuine tenderness.

 

Somewhere.

 

Maybe.

 

Seth's breath hitches in his throat. It almost feels like before. Before the betrayal. Before everything went wrong. Back when he and Dean and Roman would spend nights huddled up in bed together, kissing and touching and _loving_ each other. With all the curious roaming hands and awkward make out sessions and clumsy attempts at sex before they fell into a routine. Their routine.

 

“I really fuckin' hate you, y'know that?” Dean snaps, biting hard on Seth's bottom lip. 

 

“I know.” Seth whimpers.

 

“I shouldn't trust you. You're a fuckin' snake in the grass.”

 

“I know.” 

 

“You nearly ruined me, you goddamn bastard,” Dean says, but it's not quite as angry. It's smaller and non-threatening and almost vulnerable.

 

Seth sighs.

 

“So why the _fuck_ do I _want_ to trust you?” Dean grits his teeth and steps away. He punches the wall in frustration, the dry-wall giving way to his fist all too easily. He'll have to pay for that in the morning.

 

“I really am sorry.” Seth sniffles and wipes his nose. He's a mess. A sobbing, pathetic mess. “And I haven't forgotten. Any of it. I miss the way things were---”

 

“I haven't forgotten either, asshole, and it ain’t ever gonna be the way it was before. That one's on you, _brother._ ” Dean spits in his face for emphasis.

 

Seth knits his brow and holds back tears. It’s all his fault. “I know and---”

 

“And you're sorry. Yeah, I got the message the first hundred times you said it, champ.” Dean shakes his head. He paces around for a minute, thinking. “You know what, Seth? I don’t really give a shit after all.”

 

He balls his hand into a fist and throws it at Seth’s face with only the briefest moment of hesitation. He feels the bones crunching. Sees the blood pouring from Seth's nose. Seth cries out, and Dean laughs. Stares, transfixed, by the bright red blood that covers the shell of a man he once considered a friend. Much more than a friend. He picks up the discarded chair from the floor and grips the legs.

 

“Fuck you, brother.”

 

And the chair swings down against Seth’s skull.


End file.
